For You: Butterfly Mix
by Andromeda-Dreamer
Summary: Ten Minutes AU: Morzan doesn't die. Now Alagaesia is paying the price... [slash & het & unfluffy crack]
1. Prologue

Um, this is the prologue to the Butterfly AU, a fic wherein Morzan doesn't die. There's more of it, but it won't be posted until the whole fic's finished, because this can sort-of stand on it's own and the rest of it... can't. This is basically getting posted because my inspiritation is severely lacking and reviews are v. good for that.

So, um, yeah. Hope you like!

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Title: For You (Butterfly Mix)

Author: Electrumqueen/AndromedaDreamer

Characters/Pairings: Ensemble (AU of Book One)(SPOILERS IN PAIRINGSLIST--Roran/Nasuada, Murtagh/Tornac, Ajihad/Jeod, Murtagh/Nasuada, Arya/Faolin, Eragon/Katrina, Jeod/Trianna, Galbatorix/Morzan, Angela/Jeod, Saphira/Thorn, Thorn/Ruadhri. Mentions of Brom/Jeod, Brom/Selena, Jeod/Helen, Galbatorix/Angela/Morzan. Tornac/Katrina, Roran/Katrina, Eragon/Roran, Angela/Katrina, Arya/Eragon, Roran/Katrina/Nasuada UST)

Rating: PG-13/T

Warnings: Slash, Het, Weird Pairings, CRACK, incest-y-themes (**not **Murtagh/Eragon).

Disclaimer: CP wrote the characters first; the poetry is Carl Sandburg's. Theme song I used was Regina Spektor's 'On the Radio'--I highly recommend you listen to it with this fic (at least the prologue & prelude). Also Redemption, by Switchfoot.

Summary: AU: Morzan doesn't die. Now Alagaesia is paying the price...

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Prologue: In Which Ten Minutes Changes Everything

_The single clenched fist lifted and ready  
Or the open asking hand held out and waiting  
Choose:  
For we meet by one or the other_  
Carl Sandburg—Choose (Chicago Poems, 1916)

* * *

Two men are fighting. The man with the crimson sword (red like blood, and passion) is lazy, arrogant, at ease in the art of death. The man with the pale steel sword is bleeding from a hundred thousand cuts and scrapes, and his movements are fuelled by rage and desperation.

Flash.

Brom makes a desperate lunge—an all-or-nothing gamble—and Morzan is caught off guard. The younger man strikes him through the heart, and he dies. In the sky, a dragon is falling, screaming.

No, wait. That isn't what _happened._ **Rewind.**

Morzan died. Or did he? In a universe a world over from the Alagaesia we know, a butterfly flaps its wings in the mountains of the Spine.

Flash.

The butterfly's breeze wings its way to a clearing in a forest, somewhere in the land of Alagaesia...

Flash.

Two men are fighting. The man with the crimson sword (red like blood, and passion) is lazy, arrogant, at ease in the art of death. His name is Morzan; he is the first of the Forsworn, Rider-warriors of the Empire.

The man with the pale steel sword is bleeding from a hundred thousand cuts and scrapes, and his movements are fuelled by rage and desperation. He is Brom, leader of the Varden—those who rebel.

And he is losing.

Flash.

Brom starts to lunge—to make a desperate gamble—and a cool breeze caresses his face, like a lover. _Like Selena_. He pauses—she married this man, didn't she? And he wonders, briefly, if maybe she was right.

It's the distraction Morzan needs, and he finishes the complicated hand-gesture, murmurs the last word. Brom falls, and his heart stops beating. Morzan grins, deadly and feral, and walks over to him, searches through the younger man's dying mind, careless like a child with his toys.

He reels in shock, and calls his dragon down. _We need to go __**now**_he tells her, and she feels his panic and lands, great red wings tearing the air.

_Wait, _she says, as he's climbing on her back, _the egg. _

_Right, _he replies, and grabs the stone-like object from near the younger man's still body.

It hums in his hands, the night sky held between his palms.

He'll send people to get all they can from the body later—besides, it's only fair to let your opponents have the bodies of their fallen. For now, he has something more important to attend to.

_The village of Carvahall, _he tells his dragon. _They'll pay for hiding my son._

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	2. Prelude

Um. Hi. This is Prelude, which is the first bit of Butterfly-proper, and um yeah.

Okay. This chapter shares a theme-song with the last chapter--Regina Spektor, On the Radio. Alternatively, try Snow Patrol's The Last Shot Ringing in My Ears.

The poem at the start is totally Carl Sandburg's, and he is awesome. Also the poem (Fire Pages) fits this Angela way too well for me not to include it, so... The starter world is Christopher Paolini's, and honestly he's welcome to it.

Warnings for this chapter: Major badness for a character, badness in general, twistedness.

Beta'd by redneckgal. (Updates will probably be once a week? If I can be stuffed.)

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Prelude: In Which There Are Dreams

_I will read ashes for you, if you ask me.  
I will look in the fire and tell you from the gray lashes  
And out of the red and black tongues and stripes,  
I will tell how fire comes  
And how fire runs far as the sea._  
Carl Sandburg—Fire Pages (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

You dream: Darkness wrapping you, a shroud of nightmare and decay—_oh goddess, no_

You see-- His voice. _Angela. What do you see? _Clear like crystal, and twice as sharp—you scream, in your mind, and the power pushes you down, drowns you--

_Goddess, please--_

You're suffocating now, and you have no choice. You open your dreaming-eyes, and--

The world is on fire, from Spine to Sea, and a thousand voices are pleading, calling your name and calling for help. You can't help the scream when it comes, bubbling up through your throat, tearing it raw. You can't hear it, for the pleading.

Your master makes a disappointed noise, and you feel the world _shift. _

You see--

Morzan is standing in front of you; you recoil but realize it's part of the vision, thank goddess. His sons are with him—the older one, Murtagh, with his sword slung over his back and his fire-bright dragon behind him, and the younger one, Eragon, grinning half-feral, all of them with lazy, easy grace etched into their bones.

You turn—behind you—the Varden. Jeod—_goddess, please, don't let me speak_—he leads them, slim, deadly sword in his hand, flanked by a young, dark-skinned woman with murder in her eyes and a young man, dwarf-made hammer gripped tight in sweaty palms—

You pull yourself out of the dream, fighting so hard, and you know they'll hurt you after but you must protect them, they are this world's last hope--

You wake.

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	3. Overture

Well, this is where the story proper starts. Which means... (drum roll please) OMG ACTUAL MAIN CHARACTERS.

There are (possibly) theme songs for each chapter, because I like music and I like the Butterfly Soundtrack and anyway, theme song for this chapter: Redemption, by Switchfoot. Just 'cause.

This chapter was beta'd by redneckgal, with grammar-fu courtesy of Anda.

Disclaimer: Really, not mine. (If it was mine chances are there'd be a heck of a lot more slashiness--other than Eragon perving at Oromis.)

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Overture: In Which We Are Introduced to Our Protagonists, Who May or May Not Be Good People:

_The peace of great doors be for you.  
Wait at the knobs, at the panel oblongs.  
Wait for the great hinges._  
Carl Sandburg--For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

Murtagh stood very still in front of the handsome, thick door to his father's study, steadfastly not listening to the conversation going on behind it. His dark brown eyes showed no emotion as one of the study's occupants lost their temper, and something splintered.

As the occupants of the room began to shout at each other, he sighed a long-suffering sigh of one familiar with such shouting matches, and knocked on the door three times sharply. The shouting stopped, and he opened the door, poking his head into Morzan's study.

Murtagh's father and brother looked up guiltily from the shattered remains of Morzan's desk, matching _who, me?_ expressions on their faces. He _looked_ at them for a moment—Morzan's Rider-status meant that he looked about the same age as his younger son, which made Murtagh feel old. And kind of paternal, which, goddess knew, was necessary enough at this point.

Murtagh sighed. "What happened this time?"

Morzan grimaced and stood, brushing the remnants of his desk off his clothes. "Your brother seems to lack any form of sense; one wonders how so little time spent with peasants can instill such a low-born mindset."

Eragon, still on the floor, winced at that, but was quiet, realizing he'd better not push his brother and father any farther or he'd be lucky to be able to walk a week after.

_Well, _Murtagh thought, half-relieved, _at least he's learned some form of restraint. Even if the lesson was a bit harsh._

Thorn said, _Your father scares me. Hri is nice, though. _

_You're not the only one Father scares. Hri is nice, at that. Nicer than Shruikan, for sure._

_Shruikan is bat-shit insane; he doesn't count. _

Murtagh stifled a grin, ignoring Morzan's indulgent half-smile. He knew his father was proud of him for hatching one of the three last dragon eggs, but _goddess _it was irritating having it rubbed into his face that he was following exactly in his father's footsteps at every opportunity.

Although, in this case, he suspected it was being rubbed in his brother's face more than his. And Eragon knew it, as evidenced by the slump of his shoulders.

There was an awkward silence, which of course was _normal _for his family. Murtagh sighed, which was also common in his dealings with his father and brother. Even the King wasn't this irritating.

"So," he said at last, "What was so important to fight about that you couldn't, I don't know, notice that I have three days at home?" He knew he sounded plaintive and whiny, but goddess-damn-it, he was tired of battle.

Morzan glared at him, and he adjusted his body stance from aggressive to non-threatening. Stupid alpha-male dynamics. At court this didn't happen, and he hadn't thought he'd be missing it, but he hadn't seen his family for a couple of months, which meant he'd forgotten what they were like. Which was a mistake.

Eragon dipped his head. "I'm sorry, Murtagh. It's really good to see you again, but--"

"But you're a moron?" Murtagh interjected, half-smiling. All right, so he _had _missed his little brother, and yeah, he _did _like the kid—but no one was ever going to know, all right?

"But I don't _want _to go to court and humiliate myself!"

Murtagh blinked at that. Eragon? Not jumping at the chance for attention—not that he knew what kind of attention Morzan'd been trying to force on him, but Eragon was a self-confessed attention _whore_.

Morzan glared at his youngest. Who had apparently lost all appearance of sanity, and was glaring back. Murtagh thought, _Well, this is familiar._

Morzan said, taking pity on his elder son, "Galbatorix and I think he'll hatch the blue; he thinks he'll miss out on his current girlfriend's birthday."

Murtagh choked.

--

"Kat?" Roran, son of Garrow, asked, poking his head around the door to his friend's bedroom. "You awake?"

The girl in question, a lump of blanket on her bed, made a muffled noise of discontent and rolled over.

"C'mon, Kat!" He said, sidling into her room. He reached out and poked her left shoulder—well, the blankets shrouding her left shoulder, anyway.

She bit him. Realizing what she'd done, she sat up, shedding so many layers of blanket Roran wondered how she hadn't suffocated yet, and glared at him.

He put on a wounded air and cradled his bitten hand, which was vaguely red.

She said, "Oh, grow up, Roran. You poked me. You _know_ what I'm like in the morning."

Katrina brushed messy auburn hair out of her eyes and pulled her blankets around her like a cloak. It was _cold_ this time of year, especially if you lived on the outskirts of the City, away from the Central Fire.

She stumbled over to the window, still half-asleep, and swore. "Roran, what in the seven hells possessed you to wake me?! It's not even—it's _dark, _Roran, _dark._"

Roran said, "Aw, _Kat_. Don't you think I know that? Arya and Faolin are coming in today, and you know they never arrive during daylight--"

Katrina spun on her heel and _glared_. "Why didn't you say so? Now shoo. I'll meet you outside Nasuada's, all right?"

He started to say something, thought better of it (she might be a bit mellowed by the prospect of seeing the elves, but it was still Katrina and also still morning—early morning, at that—and his hand was sore), nodded, waved, and left.

Katrina ran for a hairbrush.

--

Murtagh took a deep drink from the flask and coughed as the alcohol burned down his throat. He'd feel guilty for indulging in his father's favourite vice later, when he didn't need the numbness quite so much. His fingertips followed a groove down the worn kitchen table. Around him, servants were bustling, preparing that night's meal.

Tornac sauntered in. "Hey there, stranger," he said, grinning, "Drinking so early in the morning; what's the matter? Missing court already?"

Murtagh shot him an obscene gesture. "They broke the desk," he said. "Right in front of me. They _broke _the _desk._" He saw Tornac's face. "Oh, goddess. What number desk was it?"

Tornac dropped into the chair next to Murtagh, sliding a languid arm around his friend's shoulder. "It's best you don't know, Murtagh."

Murtagh moaned. "I need more brandy."

--

Nasuada swung her sword in a low, deadly arc, breathing deeply. Sweat dripped down her forehead; she ignored it in favour of the second half of the movement--a parry, then a lunge--

The knock on the door startled her, though no observer would've been able to tell; she shelved the sword next to her bed, and took her waterskin down.

"Come in," she called, scrubbing her hands over her face.

Roran pushed the door open tentatively. "You're not going to attack me, are you?"

She blinked, puzzled, then realized--Katrina, everyone knew, was _not _a morning person--and goddess help you if you tried to change that. The only way she'd see sunrise was if she hadn't slept the night before.

She grinned, and took a swig from her waterskin. "They here yet?"

He shook his head, advancing into the room. She sat down on her bed, yawning. He collapsed beside her. "She bit me, you know?"

Nasauda laughed, at that. "Well, Roran. It's _morning_. And Kat. What'd you expect?"

Roran stuck his tongue out. "You done with your sword, or?"

She nodded. "I figure; I think Ajihad wants us teaching hand-to-hand today--the kids are certainly behind enough on that."

"Right. Kat'll love that; wiping the floor with me. And you, but mostly me, if we get the girls." Roran sighed. The Varden were warriors, all of them, and Katrina, Nasuada and Roran were very good. But due to their ages (none of them had reached twenty-one) they were stuck teaching the little ones until they hit the Varden's age of majority. And when you taught little girls how to defend themselves, the male in your group had a lot of demonstration done on him.

Nasuada 'mmm'ed noncommitally and ran her fingers through her hair. Tangled, as usual. She reached for her hairbrush--Roran said, "Let me," and ran the comb through her dark hair. It felt good, and she leaned her head back into his fingers.

He was smiling, she knew it. Smug prat. She twisted around and kissed him softly--he grinned into the kiss. She poked him, and the hairbrush fell to the floor--

--

Katrina knocked on Nasuada's door. No response. She pushed it open, and, "Oh, goddess. You two! We're supposed to be meeting Faolin and Arya!"

Roran looked up guiltily, and Nasuada fumbled with her shirt. "Oh, come on, Kat. Not like you haven't seen it a hundred times before--"

"It's still keeping me from seeing Arya and Faolin, and rendering my awakeness pointless--which, in case you hadn't figured it out, makes me upset--" She trailed off, and Roran swallowed, pulling his shirt over his head.

"What are we waiting for, then?" He chirped perkily.

Nasuada grinned at Katrina, who returned it. Baiting Roran was _fun_.

Nasuada slung her sword over her shoulder and tossed Roran a (sheathed) dagger--you could never be too careful, unless you were a Rider or a ridiculously powerful mage, neither of which any of them were. "Kat, you got something?"

She nodded, slipping a throwing-star out of her boot and displaying it for them. Kat's particular skills were espionage-related--hand-to-hand, easily-obscured or explained weapons--while she could use a sword well she wasn't _fond _of them, per se. Faolin was teaching her, in-between missions (diplomatic and otherwise), and she was eager for him to be back.

Roran belted the dagger at his waist and ran his fingers through his hair. "Shall we?" He asked, and offered Katrina and Nasuada his arms. Both of them glared at him, and left.

As always, he ran after them.

--

"Lyss, I'm back from the capital. I need the largest mug of ale you can get me," Murtagh said, Tornac draped over his shoulder. "And, uh, whatever he usually has."

"That bad?" The pretty barmaid asked, pouring him a ridiculously large cup of frothing brown stuff.

Murtagh winced. "You don't want to know. Really, you don't."

Tornac nodded. "Believe me, you don't want to know; he spent the better part of three hours telling me." Murtagh glared at him. He shrugged and caught his beer, downing half the mug in a single swallow.

Lyss grinned at them, brown eyes sparkling. "I guess I won't ask. Here you go, Murtagh."

He took the ale from her with a murmured thanks and made his way over to a table, Tornac in tow. He slumped into a chair. "And here I was thinking a trip home would be _relaxing. _Relaxing, my ass."

His dragon made a disapproving noise in his head. Murtagh said, _Oh, stuff this. Can we go to court now? _

"No." Tornac said, unclasping his friend's hands from the mug.

Murtagh jerked his head up. "What?"

"I said, no you _can't _go back to court. You had that look on your face." Tornac grinned."_And_ it's all you've been talking about for the past hour."

"Oh," Murtagh said, and took a deep swallow.

The door to the tavern creaked open, and Tornac wondered aloud, "Who would be depressed enough to be drinking at _this _hour? Excepting you, noble sir."

Murtagh was too absorbed in his drink to respond, but when Tornac poked him he looked up. And promptly took a deeper drink before swearing.

There, standing in the doorframe of the only tavern within walking distance of Morzan's castle, stood Eragon.

Thorn said, _Don't make a scene. Please._

Murtagh said, _The _hell _I'm not making a scene. My little brother has all the mind of a kree-bird! _He started to stand; Tornac grabbed his arm.

"Don't lose it," he hissed.

Murtagh nodded, and forced himself down. Eragon waved to Lyss and walked over to them.

"So help me, goddess, I will punch you _out,_ little brother. Aren't you and Father _supposed _to be working something out at home?" Murtagh's voice was low and hard and dangerous, perfected on patrol.

Eragon winced. "Can I sit?"

Murtagh said, "Would it matter if I said no?"

Tornac rolled his eyes. "Sit down, kid."

Eragon smiled gratefully and took a seat. "Thanks, Tornac."

"Trust me, kid, you shoulda stayed put. He's _drunk_."

Murtagh glared and took another swig.

Eragon said, "I'm sorry. I did--I missed you. I really did. But you _know _Father and I have never gotten along, and it was worse when you were gone, and things were just--building. Can we talk? Please?"

Murtagh sighed. "All right. Why is I can never stay mad with you for long?"

Eragon's smile was like the dawn breaking.

Murtagh waved to Lyss. She came over, wiping her hands on her apron. "I think I'm going to need you to bring me a steady succession of ale."

She looked at his companions. "Sure thing."

Eragon opened his mouth. Murtagh said, "No. No. And no."

Eragon deflated.

--

Arya, princess of Ellesmera, stroked her horse's neck and fought to keep her eyes open.

Next to her, her mate Faolin was humming a discordant tune, trying desperately to stay awake. The road they were on was thickly-wooded and in the trees animals were sleeping--not exactly condusive to alertness.

She yawned, and reached for the stimulant-herbs in the pouch at her belt.

Faolin looked at her. "Arya..."

Her hand fell. "You're right. I'm just--_tired_."

"Hey," he said, reaching out a hand, "Me too. We'll be home soon."

"Home sounds good," she told him, voice scratchy with fatigue.

He smiled tiredly. "What do you want to bet Roran and Nasuada dragged Kat out of bed to meet us?"

"What do you want to bet she bit Roran?" Arya retorted.

Faolin laughed. "Should we do the spell now?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"We'd better," she replied, "I don't think I could do it in five or ten minutes."

He nodded, and dismounted. Next to him, she was doing the same, twining her hands in the air.

Faolin started the chant and Arya joined him and then--

--

Murtagh stared into the depths of his mug, wondering if it would be deep enough to drown him.

Thorn said, _Stop wallowing. I'm going to hunt. By the time I'm done you'd better be sober._

_Oh, all right. Have fun._

_Oh, I will. Possibly I will even imagine some of the animals I eat are you._

Murtagh sent an obscene gesture down their mental connection.

Thorn sent one back and detached, with an air of moral-high-grounded-ness.

Eragon continued, "Her name is Aderyn, and she has eyes like, like, loam and willow-bark and--"

Tornac sent Murtagh a look and drummed his fingers on the table.

Murtagh said, "And...Aderyn? Is why you're getting in a massive fight with Father?"

"Yes, well, she's wonderful and I really don't want to miss her birthday, and--"

"And you're pissed at him. Why?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Tornac sighed and went over to Lyss, who laughed at him and set him to cleaning old cups.

--

Katrina tapped her foot. "Where _are _they?"

Nasuada was worried. "They should be here by now--"

Right on cue, a flash of green-and-pale gold light heralded the elves' coming.

Roran blinked as the light seared itself onto his eyes. When he opened them, Arya and Faolin were standing in the Great Hall, horses in tow. They looked like something dragged out of the kitchen-waste, and instinctively he ran forward, catching Faolin as he stumbled.

Beside him, the girls had Arya, who looked really, really horrible.

He hoped it was ride-fatigue--they'd had to travel from the Varden to Ellesmera in a day; they couldn't risk being spotted by the Empire, so they'd expended a hell of a lot of magic, and that took a lot out of even an elf.

Faolin mumbled, "Thank you," and tried to stand.

Roran said, "Don't. We'll get you two to bed."

Arya said, "The horses--"

Katrina looked at Nasuada, who took all of Arya's weight on her shoulder. "I'll do them," Kat said, running her hands down their necks. "Get some sleep, all right? You look _awful_."

Arya laughed harshly. "Figures," she said, and coughed.

--

Murtagh woke up, and winced. He whispered the words of the spell, and the hangover was blessedly _gone. _

Thorn disapproved.

Murtagh rolled over, and raised a forearm over his eyes to shield them from the new sun.

"Goddess, I needed that," he murmured, and kissed his partner softly. Tornac mmm'ed in his sleep, and Murtagh grinned, basking in the dual warmth of his lover and the sunlight.

He ran his hand through the other man's hair, thinking. Yesterday had _not _gone well; what with Morzan and Eragon fighting, finding out the King's captive seer had Seen Eragon with the blue dragon, finding out Eragon was in "love", convincing his idiot brother to travel--

Tornac stirred. "Stop thinking," he said, voice sleep-mussed. "You're waking me up."

Murtagh half-smiled, and whispered a brief apology. "Hey, go back to sleep. I promise not to think so loud, all right?"

Tornac said, "S'long as you're not thinking," and burrowed back into the blankets.

"Come with me to court?" Murtagh whispered, once he was sure the other man was asleep. "I think I need you to keep me sane."

Tornac snored quietly. Murtagh sighed. He'd ask--later. Once this current mess was sorted out. He _would._

--


	4. Sonata

Next chapter! Hope you like it!

Theme songs--Fidelity, Regina Spektor, on the Varden side, Meant to Live, Switchfoot, for the Empire boys.

Warnings: Um...Language. And slash. And het. Ickiness. Messed-up canon.

Also, I'm writing 'Five Things'; if anyone wants one PM me or leave one in a review. (yes, okay, I'm fishing for reviews now. :-p)

Disclaimer: Not mine, 'kay? CP's.

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Sonata: In Which There is a Happening of Great Importance

_The peace of great churches be for you,  
Where the players of loft pipe organs  
Practice old lovely fragments, alone._

Carl Sandburg--For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

Arya woke up, emerging from the dark depths of dreams. She blinked slowly, and reached for Faolin. Next to her he murmured sleepy nonsense and she smiled, rubbing her eyes.

Faolin stirred. "Arya?" He asked, yawning.

"Right here," she told him, running her fingers through her hair. "I think I need to wash my hair. You do too. Need to wash your hair, I mean."

He stared at her. "Arya, we just got back from a ridiculously long ride, we've been asleep for who-knows-how-long, and you're worried about...Yeah, I'm worried about my hair too. Are we _attractive _to twigs? Because that's what my hair feels like."

She laughed. "One of us ought to get up and see where we are and what time it is..."

Faolin sighed. "But I just woke up!"

"Me too!"

"'S warm..." He murmured, burrowing into the blankets.

"...Faolin. We need to find Ajihad and Jeod. Remember? The news from Ellesmera? And if I know them, they're pacing back and forth waiting for us..."

Faolin glared. "Why does this always happen?"

"Dearlove, _you _proposed to _me. _And you knew I'd be stuck doing this. So really, it's your own fault."

"But how could I resist? I _love _you, Arya." He kissed her softly.

She laughed. "We still have to go. C'mon."

--

Thorn, dragon of Murtagh, circled in the air above Morzan's castle. His Rider was clutching his saddle tightly and looked a bit green; evidently the spell had worn off. Ruadhri, Morzan's dragon, sent a chuckle Thorn's way.

Thorn said, _I love my Rider dearly, but he is a moron. _

Ruadhri laughed. _Too true, little one. Too true, for all of us. Don't tell your Rider I said his father's a moron._

Thorn said, _I hope he doesn't throw up on me--_

Murtagh said, _I heard that. And I won't. If only because you'd make me clean it off, and with this headache--_

_Well, I did tell you to be careful. _

_You expected me to listen?!_

Ruadhri craned her neck to look at them reprovingly. Murtagh went greener and Thorn dipped his head. Tornac, sitting behind Murtagh, swallowed and gripped his friend's waist tighter.

Morzan shouted, "Murtagh, Thorn! Keep up!" And Ruadhri _flew_.

Eragon, sitting behind Morzan, looked sicker than Thorn's Rider; the wind wrenched past them as the great red dragon powered her way through the sky. He'd pretty much given up on any form of resistance after his brother and father double-teamed him, though he wasn't at all used to dragonflight. Especially Ruadhri's dragonflight.

She was _fast, _Thorn thought; and then--_Wait. I have to _keep up

Murtagh said, _Please. Don't. _

Which of course clinched it; Thorn threw himself into the wind.

Murtagh threw up. Fortunately over Thorn's side, narrowly missing his wing. Thorn growled.

Murtagh said, _I warned you. _

Thorn ignored him and kept flying.

--

Katrina smiled at the little girl clinging to her leg and tried to suppress the urge to kick her off; it had been a long day. "Callie? Sweetheart? Can you please get off my leg?"

The girl looked up at her with wide blue eyes. "But--"

"Callie," Katrina sighed. "Look. There're your friends. Don't you want to go play with them?"

"Katrina," the girl said, pointing at a space behind Kat, "Look--"

Katrina turned. Shocked, she knelt down awkwardly and whispered, "Go get your friends out of here, all right? And find some help."

Callie nodded. "Katrina--"

She forced a quick smile. "Everything's going to be fine, dearling."

The girl ran off to the other end of the training hall (a large chamber with a padded floor and walls used for teaching the little children) and whispered urgently to the other kids, currently having a break.

"Roran!" Katrina called. "Nasuada? Get over here."

The pendant at her throat, small and emerald, was a welcome weight.

--

Galbatorix emerged from his chambers. "Morzan," he said. "Good to see you."

"Likewise, My Lord," Morzan replied, bowing hand-over-heart.

"Come in," the King said, smiling.

Morzan clamped down on the urge to giggle and followed the other man to his rooms.

Once the door had shut behind them he let out a great sigh and slumped into a chair. "Goddess, I ache. And, Tor, do I need a bath? Or do I need a bath?"

The King laughed. "I'd say so. Hang on--" He closed his eyes, and Morzan heard water trickle into the tub.

"You're a life-saver, you know that?"

"'Course I do. You look awful, Morzan."

Morzan levered himself out of the chair and glared, stripping his clothes off on the way to warm water. "Nice to hear it. I knew I shouldn't've inflated your ego, and I did it anyway. Oh, goddess, this feels good."

Galbatorix laughed as his friend splashed in the bath, and sat down next to him, keeping a safe distance between his clothes and the water.

"So, your son. The younger one, however much I enjoy Murtagh--he really is a credit to you, you know."

Morzan mmm'ed and fell backwards into the water. Galbatorix said, "I'm not going to get any conversation out of you for a while, am I?"

Morzan laughed. "Probably not, Tor. It's too nice, the water."

"For a Dragon Rider you certainly enjoy the sea..."

"Met a Selkie when I was young, remember? Before Hri hatched for me. Seals are wonderful creatures." He submerged, eyes closed in bliss.

Galbatorix smiled.

--

Murtagh took a deep drink of water from his waterskin, then splashed some on his face.

Tornac looked at him pointedly, tapping his foot on the cobbled stone of the courtyard.

Eragon threw up in a bush.

Tornac mused aloud, "Why am I the only one of us not sick? Oh, yes, I remember --because I _didn't get drunk last night_."

Murtagh glared at him.

Eragon was too busy throwing up to respond.

Thorn, curled up in the center of the courtyard next to Ruadhri, licked his tail.

_Tornac?_

The man in question stopped mocking his friends and looked up. "Yes?"

_Hello._

"Wait. _Thorn?_"

_You're really quite astonishingly intelligent. _

Tornac grinned. Of course that was Murtagh's dragon. His voice even sounded like--oh, goddess, was that affection bleeding through his thoughts?

Thorn said, _I figured we should talk. It's not like they'll be paying any attention, and Hri says she won't interfere, so..._

Tornac raised an eyebrow. "So you can slaughter me?"

Murtagh looked at him oddly.

He said, "_Your _dragon."

Murtagh said, "Thorn, don't kill him. That's my job." And went over to his little brother, who showed no signs of lessening the offload.

Tornac said, "Wow, how reassuring," and folded down next to the dragons.

Ruadhri blinked at him slowly, but he detected no malice in it. He stayed put, watching Murtagh stroke his brother's back and wince.

Thorn chuffed and nibbled his hair.

--

Roran finished his bread and cheese and licked the last of the crumbs off his fingers. Bored now, he watched Nasuada eat.

She blinked at him, swallowing the last of her apple.

Katrina shouted, "Roran! Nasuada!"

He was on his feet in less time than it took for a dragon to blink, hands scrabbling for weapons secreted around his body--and he came up with nothing. Beside him, Nasuada'd abandoned all hope of lunch and had her sword in hand. As one they ran to Katrina, sprinting across the soft floor.

The girl herself was standing in front of the main door to the training hall--there was one at the back, but it led to the pools and involved a really complicated route to get home, so most people avoided it--and she was afraid. Roran knew the tenseness in her back didn't show up for just anything; all of them were fairly good at masking emotion, and for this to be visible--

Roran stopped short of her; not because he _wanted _to, but because there was _something _blocking him. Next to him, Nasuada was pinwheeling her arms, having run straight into the invisible barrier.

Katrina turned to look at them, and Roran swore. Her pupils were gone, and there was a faint glow surrounding her, brighter at the stone at her throat. He turned to Nasuada--"Can you?"

She shook her head. "My magic doesn't work like this--can you see why she built it?"

He craned his neck. "There's something--blocking."

Nasuada swore. "Kat!" she called. "C'mon, Kat, wake up! It's us--Nasuada and Roran! We'll help you!"

Roran said, as quiet as he could make his voice, "Do we know how she just got power? Kat's not magical, and if she's possessed we have a big problem--"

Nasuada shook her head. "I wish to goddess I knew what was going on--but my magic's always been earth-elemental, and not powerful at that." She reached out a hand and tapped at the barrier. Her fingers ricocheted off "solid" air.

She said, "Well, it's not weakening with time."

Roran closed his eyes briefly. "The little ones are out, right?"

Nasuada checked. "I think so. There aren't any I can see; hopefully they've gone for help."

Katrina said, in a voice that did not sound like her own, "Are you--are you the Varden?"

Her voice quavered, sounding much much older than Katrina, and the girl was practically vibrating as her aura intensified.

Roran looked at Nasuada. She swallowed. "Who are you to ask? Who are you to take the body of our friend for your purposes?"

Not-Katrina said, "I was—I was Angela. I am--" Katrina's body crumpled to the ground, and with her the barrier.

Roran didn't stop to think, ran to her and scooped her into his arms.

"Infirmary." Nasuada said, and checked the younger girl's head for wounds.

Roran began to walk.

--

Tornac said, "Let me get this straight. _You _want _me _to move to Uru'baen with Murtagh? How do I even know-- His Lordship wouldn't _let _me! Murtagh probably wouldn't _want _me to! It'd be, like, a slur on his reputation. Or something."

_Have you forgotten who you're talking to? _Thorn asked, dryly. _Murtagh and I are two parts of the same being. He wants you here; he's afraid to ask. Therefore I took matters into my own claws. _

Murtagh looked over at them curiously. Eragon, having emptied the contents of his stomach, was still pale but less sick.

Tornac whispered, "_You _bastard_. You _know _I've never been able to say no to him--not for anything that counts--"_

_Oooh, _Thorn said, _I thought you might get the hang of it. You just mind-spoke. Well done._

Tornac, in the middle of swallowing, choked. _You're joking._

_Am not. _

_This doesn't mean I'm going to be the next Rider, does it? _Tornac asked, dreading the answer. He wouldn't particularly enjoy sharing his head with a being not himself--or someone he'd chosen.

_Don't worry; you're safe. Possibly if there were more of us--you've got the knack, like hundreds of others. You just happen to have a chance to use it. _

_...Huh._

_--_

Ajihad paced up and down the room, running his fingers through his hair.

Jeod, sitting at his desk, hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, was observing the Varden's battle-leader detachedly.

Ajihad said, "Where _are _those elves?"

Jeod smiled softly (it scared most people, as it should). "Probably sleeping. Ajihad, if you haven't forgotten, they _did _travel all the way here from Ellesmera in a day."

The other man sighed. "I wish they'd hurry up about it; what if there's something urgent?"

"You think they'd have slept if there was something they needed to tell us?"

"Point taken. Still..."

"They'll show up; don't worry."

Ajihad sat down. "I'm just--worried, I guess. On edge. There's something in the air..."

"I feel it too. They'll be here." Jeod assured him, running a fingertip around the edge of his mug.

--

Murtagh was petting his little brother's hair, hoping the boy wouldn't throw up again and wondering what his--what _Tornac _and Thorn were talking about, when _something ricocheted_ through all of magic and hit him _hard. _

He screamed and _reached_, blindly, for Thorn.

Who was reaching back, with a deep-rooted _need _he himself was feeling.

He fell, blind and deaf and dumb to everything but Thorn.

--

Nasuada and Roran had just gotten out of the door and into the hallway when a crowd of people ran up to them, Trianna in the lead.

The dark-haired woman looked at Nasuada with her daughter's urgent eyes. "Nasuada," Trianna said, "Nasuada! What happened?"

"We don't--Trianna, she just--she collapsed. She had, I don't know, some kind of magic. Whatever it was, it drained her. I think she might have been--possessed?"

Trianna's mouth set in a grim line. "Iason," she addressed the man at her side, "I think we'll need Arya. Possibly Faolin as back-up. Go."

He nodded, and ran.

"Callie said she saw a strange white light, told Katrina, and ran for help. Do you know anything?"

Nasuada shook her head. "At this point, you know more than I do. Listen, if she's--do we _take _her to infirmary? She was asking, if this was the Varden?" She grimaced at the quaver in her voice and clamped down on emotions. Time to panic later.

Roran adjusted Katrina's head on his shoulder. "Do I take her back--or?"

Trianna thought for a moment. "You're right, Nasuada. Nothing we can do in the infirmary that we can't in the Hall, and if she _is _possessed I'd rather not have her seeing this place."

Roran swallowed, and brushed a kiss to Katrina's forehead. "Will she--"

Trianna forced a smile. "She'll be fine, Roran, don't worry." But her eyes belied her worry.

Nasuada said, "Someone, go tell my father and the Council. They need to know this."

Trianna looked at her approvingly. "Good call. Roran, we'd better get her back inside." She raised her voice. "The rest of you--unless you're magical or a healer or have a clue what's going on? Disperse."

The crowd left, except for the small girl standing behind Trianna. "Mommy?"

"Sweetheart, not now, all right?"

"Mommy--the light wasn't _bad_. Just...different. I don't think it would hurt her--"

"All right, Callie. I'll keep that in mind. Go home now, sweetie." Trianna ruffled her daughter's hair. "Everything's going to be fine."

--

Murtagh collapsed, crumpling onto Eragon. Who yelped, and caught him.

Tornac was on his feet instantly, heart in his mouth. "What the--?"

Eragon said, from the ground where Murtagh's head lay in his lap, "What in the Goddess' name just happened?!"

Tornac said, "I'm fucked if I know," and thought _What happened? _at Thorn.

He got no response. He tried again, out loud. "Thorn? What happened?"

Nothing.

Eragon looked at him worriedly. "Do you suppose--whatever happened--do you think it hit my father? And the King?" This last was clearly an afterthought. Tornac would have laughed, under better circumstances--however much Eragon professed to loathe his father familial bonds were strong, with this lot.

Tornac looked at the two red dragons--Thorn curled up against Ruadhri's side, both unconscious.

He swallowed.

--

Morzan felt the shock reverberate through all of magic, and it made his muscles fail for a brief, panic-inducing moment. He mind-screamed--_Galbatorix! Ruadhri! _The water cradled him, as the power hit him--he pulled his shields up and took a sharp breath.

He fought not to fall under the water, and felt a rush of energy. Galbatorix.

There was a sudden and marked lack of water in the tub. And a sudden and marked lump of body.

Morzan opened his eyes. _Ow, headache_, forced that down with a spell_. What happened? Ruadhri, you there?_

No answer. Galbatorix, next to him, blinked several times. "What the fucking _fuck _was that?"

Morzan said, "I'm not getting anything from Hri."

Galbatorix said, "She's all right--just unconscious. Same with your son." And then he kissed Morzan, deep and desperate, like the end of the world had come and gone.

Morzan responded; how could he _not?_

--

Tornac said, "We'd better find some help."

Eragon nodded, and slipped his overtunic over his head, balling it into a pillow. He lowered his brother's head onto the makeshift support and stood. "One problem. When was the last time you were at Uru'baen?"

Tornac swallowed. "Never?"

Eragon grimaced. "I must have been maybe seven years old last time I was here--I have no idea of what the place looks like. Goddess-damn-it."

Tornac swore under his breath. "There'll be servants around, right?"

Eragon thought about it. "Not in this wing, I don't think--the King cleans his rooms with magic, and Murtagh says he has privacy issues--"

Tornac swore again. "Any way for us to _get _to servants?"

Eragon shook his head. "Not in a way that'll take us less than an hour--we'll have to hope we can find the King and my father. They'll know what to do."

"All right, then. Lead on!"

--

Arya felt the fracture in the magic when it happened, though as it happened her shields were strong enough to protect her. Faolin was not so lucky. One moment he was teasing her about her hair, the next he was supine on their bed.

She said, "Faolin?" And reached for his mind. Once she was assured that he was fine, but unreachable, she set off for the Council. Other people must have been affected, she'd be needed. And perhaps someone would have a clue what was going on.

And once the magic-shock wore off, she'd be having a long talk with Faolin about maintaining one's shields.

--

Eragon and Tornac wandered down halls, utterly and completely lost. They'd resorted to ducking into any unlocked room (and several that could be forced open), looking for people.

The room they were currently in was pretty much empty, though there was soft, thick, carpet on the floor, and two stone pedestals in the center of the room, which struck Tornac as odd.

Eragon said, "What's that?" Pointing to a silver-blue stone sitting on a pedestal, next to an egg-shaped emerald.

Tornac said, "I don't know--for goddess' sake, Eragon, don't _touch _it--"

Too late. Eragon's seeking fingers brushed the stone's surface, leaving minute rippling cracks in their wake. Tornac swallowed.

There was a feeling in the air--a barely palpable anticipation thick on Tornac's tongue.

Eragon's eyes were wide with shock as he reached out another finger. "It's--hatching..." he whispered, as if something he did could break the cycle, stop the dragon in the stone-egg from hatching.

Tornac grinned. "It's hatching _for you_," he said, and Eragon's face split in a smile.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it is."

There was a sound, building. A low droning hum, but as Tornac listened it became more melodic, a beautiful wordless song.

_The dragons_. _Oh goddess, the dragons are singing. _

Eragon didn't seem to hear, attention caught by the cracking egg. Bits of blue fell away, revealing a tiny nose, tight-sealed eyes, damp wings--Tornac had to admit, the thing was cute.

The small creature shook out its wings and licked at the remnants of membrane on its body.

Wonderingly, Eragon stroked a finger along the hatchling's sapphire-blue nose; it nuzzled against his palm, and there was a flash of white light.

Tornac's eyes closed, half-involuntarily to shield him from the brightness; when he opened them Eragon was flat on the floor and the hatchling had jumped off the pedestal and was nosing at its new Rider's shirt, probably looking for food.

Tornac laughed, and poked Eragon's shoulder. "Wake up," he said. "Your dragon's hungry!"

--


	5. Intermezzo

Next chapter, in which there is rather more slash than there used to be, and Trianna, who I like.

Beta'd by redneckgal; as usual, all mistakes are mine.

Warnings: Weirdness, as usual. Incomprehensible hints of Things To Come.

Theme Song: Lady, by Regina Spektor

(Disclaimer: -runs from horde of plagiarized authors- CP did it!)

Also, reviews are made of win :)

* * *

Intermezzo: In Which There Are Reactions

_The peace of great books be for you,  
Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages,  
Bleach of the light of years held in leather._

Carl Sandburg--For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

Trianna flicked through the pages of the old book, looking over at Katrina, prone beside her. She closed her eyes and extended her senses, reaching for the girl's essence.

Nasuada said, "Are you getting anything?"

Trianna shook her head, and reached for the bronze snake at her hip, whispering the spell. It woke, and looked at her, bright-eyed. She smiled at it, and it took the knowledge from her mind of what needed to be done.

She held out her wrist; it bit deep, taking what it needed and slithering over to Katrina's body.

Roran shuddered. She shot him a glare, and _felt _her aura expand with the Logra's, and something burned against them. They recoiled, the Logra going dead.

She said, "Well. That's strong magic, and corrosive," and coughed.

Roran said, protective hand on Katrina's shoulder, "What does that mean?"

Nasuada closed her eyes. "Does it mean what I think--"

Trianna nodded, biting her lip. She reached for the Logra tentatively; it was cool to the touch. She slipped it around her wrist, and resumed looking for something, _anything _in the old spellbook.

"Where's Arya?" She heard Roran whisper, tired and defeated, and her heart broke a little.

Katrina coughed, and for half-a-heartbeat Trianna thought it was singing.

--

Arya, half-running down the hall to the Council-room, felt it happen; something warmer than the destruction of before, but just as widespread through the magic. She stopped, stock-still in the middle of the hall (if it had been a busy part of the City, she'd have caused a pile-up; she took a moment to thank whatever was up there that she lived in a fairly-out-of-the-way area), and _reached_.

She heard singing. She spun on her heel and ran for home.

--

Morzan, caught in the warmth of afterglow, thought at first that the feeling was brought on by Galbatorix. Gentle, low, humming, in his very veins--very much the King's style.

He poked Galbatorix in the shoulder. The other man sat up straight, looking ahead at everything and nothing.

He said, "What? Oh goddess--" And listened to Ruadhri singing.

--

Jeod spilled his tea. Ajihad dropped the knife he'd been toying with. They looked at each other.

Jeod said, "Well, this certainly complicates things."

--

Vanir, of the Queen's Guard, was training when it happened; the singing thrummed low through all of those fighting, burning in their veins.

He stopped in mid-parry and said, "Is that what I think it is?"

Alian, his spar-partner, said, "We should find the Queen."

--

Faolin woke, the singing calling him home.

--

In a cave in Ellesmera, a dragon struggled, trying to join the song, before it was subdued.

Its Rider cried quietly, tears slipping down his face.

--

In the kitchens at Uru'baen, a small boy (one of the messenger boys one finds scattered around palaces and courts, almost decoratively) dropped his basket of bread-rolls in an out-of-the-way alcove. His eyes glowed and slit, briefly, as he sniffed the air. He pulled himself together and picked up the basket.

--

Murtagh opened his eyes slowly, wary of the headache leftover from last night. The first thing that struck him was light--harsh on his previously-shielded eyes. He blinked several times, adjusting, and stretched. The rolled-up cloth under his head dislodged, knocking his head against the ground.

He winced, and looked around. "Eragon?" He asked--or meant to. What actually came out was "Mmn?" He coughed and tried again. "Eragon? Tornac?"

Thorn said, _What dragon flew straight into us and kept going?_

Murtagh shook his head slowly. _Hell if I know. Where'd Tornac and Eragon go? Ruadhri?_

_My Rider says there was a magical disturbance, and we were out for roughly an hour. _The warm voice was irritated, and Murtagh wondered why--and then he remembered; Morzan and Galbatorix in the same room after something bad had happened? You'd better not have left anything in there.

Thorn said, _You woke up later than us, you know._

_Really. _Murtagh said dryly. _What'd I miss?_

_Only your brother hatching. _

_What?!_

--

Angela screamed louder, the mangled threads of her sanity slipping farther and farther away.

--

_Selena and Brom danced, arms wound tight around each other. The moonlight washed over the couple, blessing them. _

_Morzan watched, and smiled. Unwittingly his eyes wandered over to Galbatorix, standing beside him, laughter playing on his lips._

_"They're beautiful," Morzan said. _

_"I'm glad," Galbatorix replied, and took Morzan's hand. _

Morzan opened his eyes, was not surprised to find his vision blurry. He missed them more than he'd ever have thought he could. He had more pressing concerns, though.

He lifted his head from Galbatorix's chest, and said, slowly, "My son just hatched, didn't he."

Galbatorix smiled. "Your younger son, yes."

"How do you always know everything?"

"Never mind that--we need to get dressed. And find them."

Morzan sighed. "Where'd my shirt go again?"

--

Murtagh said, _Thorn. Where do I need to go?_

_Third door on the right you come to, this corridor. Ruadhri thinks. _

_She'd better be right, _Murtagh told his dragon, and ran.

--

Eragon swum up to the light, feeling groggy. Something licked his face. Something else poked his shoulder.

He tried to say, "Stop that," and instead got a mouthful of startled baby dragon. The dragon squealed. He coughed and it hopped onto his chest indignantly.

He looked around. Tornac, crouching next to him, was unsuccessfully smothering a grin.

There was a small blue dragon, floppy and new-looking sitting on his chest. _There was a small blue dragon sitting on his chest!_

Eragon raised his palm, tentatively, almost expecting--no, it was there, the silver oval called the _gedwey ignasia_. Now he matched the rest of his family. He didn't have time to think about whether this was a good thing; there was a sudden and overpowering feeling of _hunger _gnawing away at his stomach.

The dragon--_his dragon!--_made a plaintive mewing noise.

He said, "You're hungry, then?" He sat up, catching the cat-sized creature with the arm not recently branded. It licked him and nibbled at his arm. He yelped; those teeth were _sharp_.

Tornac said, "I'll see if I can find something for it to eat."

Stroking the dragon's head and marvelling at its perfection, Eragon said, "Thank you."

A strip of meat flew at his head. The dragon jumped out of his arms and caught the meat in its mouth. Then it fell into his lap, flapping its tiny wings futilely. He laughed and stroked it gently. It snapped at the meat.

Tornac said, "They must've anticipated this; there's meat in the base of the pedestal."

"Wouldn't it spoil?" Eragon asked, watching the small dragon attack the meat, gulping it down so fast he took some away for fear it would choke.

"Magic, I suppose."

"Oh, right... Do you think it'll choke? It's eating that meat really quickly..."

"I doubt it. Don't they have really strong survival instincts? Better keep an eye on it though."

Eragon nodded, and moved his fingers out of reach. "Can I have another strip of meat over here?"

Tornac said, "Don't push your luck." And threw another piece of meat at the dragon.

--

Katrina shrugged Roran's hand off her shoulder and sat up, coughing harshly. She looked around--she was sitting in the Training Hall, which was oddly empty, weird--Nasuada was sitting next to Roran, both of them with matching worried expressions; and...Trianna? Unless Callie'd done something, and she couldn't remember--

Nasuada's voice--"Katrina? That you?"

She said, "Who else would it be?" and coughed some more. Her throat hurt. And she...couldn't remember anything past Callie tugging at her pant-leg--she forced down the rising panic. She whispered, dreading the answer, "What'd I do?"

Trianna said, calm and steady, "Katrina, you didn't do anything. It's all right. Do you remember anything past the light?"

Katrina swallowed. "What light?"

Roran took her hand and she gripped his palm like a life-line. Nasuada hugged her; Trianna smiled at her in a manner that was probably meant to reassure but instead affirmed the mounting panic.

"Callie said she saw a light, and then you called out for Roran and Katrina. Do you remember that?"

Wordlessly she shook her head.

Trianna said, "It might not be--it could be caused by the fall. She crumpled to the floor, and I know it's soft, but--"

Nasuada smiled, less joyful than an acknowledgment of reassurance and a thank you.

"Wait--" Katrina said, getting a flash of _something_. "Angela? The name--Angela?"

Trianna sighed. "Nasuada, Roran. We need to lock this hall down. No one goes in, no one leaves. You know why."

Katrina did--lockdowns happened under three circumstances: a drill, a full-scale attack (not that there had been any on the City as long as she'd been here, but they lived in fear) and an incursion. It didn't look like a drill.

--

Murtagh skidded to a stop outside the open door, looking into the room. He froze, shocked.

Eragon was lying on the carpeted floor, bouncing a baby dragon up and down in the air. And Tornac (_Tornac!) _was throwing it meat, which it was snapping up. The whole scene looked incredibly domestic, which was the opposite of--of _them._

He didn't move, watching them, these people whom he loved. There was a warm feeling in his chest, and he smiled.

Thorn said, peering through Murtagh's eyes, _That is adorable_.

Murtagh said, _Oh goddess, they are. The little one--_

_She's blue--like... _

Murtagh closed his eyes. _We'd better hope the green's a male. _

A hand landed on his shoulder--he almost jumped, but he was better-trained than that.

Morzan said softly, "They're adorable."

"So Thorn tells me," Murtagh retorted, quietly.

Morzan said, "A blue...why am I feeling the irony?"

Murtagh said, "Do I know? No. Because you still feel the urge to treat me like a five-year-old, or Eragon, despite the fact that I am eighteen years of age." The low burn of resentment was in his stomach now, his dissatisfaction with his father's trust in him brought to a boiling point.

Morzan looked at him, dark eyes boring into him.

Eragon's dragon fell asleep, curled up on his chest. Eragon laughed, and stroked her head.

Murtagh whispered, "Why don't you trust me? I love him too."

Morzan pulled him into a hug.

--

Trianna turned page after page in her _grimoire_, looking for something--anything--that would let them figure out what had happened to Katrina. The girl in question was curled up on the floor with her head in Roran's lap, clutching her friends' hands like lifelines. Which they were, as far as Katrina was concerned.

Trianna closed her eyes, tiredly. She needed help to figure out what was going on--she didn't have the _background _for this, dammit! Trianna's Gift had woken when she was seventeen and her magical knowledge was spotty—she'd taught herself with folklore and scattered bits of information out of whatever books she could find; she simply didn't have the textbook _knowledge _some magic (_this magic_) required.

The magic she used was a mix of intuition and practice, and a little folk wisdom she'd picked up along the way. Arya and Faolin, bless them, _knew what they were doing. _

Goddess, it scared Trianna how little she knew, sometimes, how she was running on hot air and how she was the most powerful human mage in the Varden--but then Callie would smile at her and everything would be better. ...Except there was no Callie. Not here. And if this went wrong--if something happened to Katrina--Trianna might not see her daughter again.

She sighed. Wasn't that the risk she took, living here? No point fussing about it now; she had to figure out what was wrong with Katrina. Now.

She bent her head over the book again.

--

Arya closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the magic. She needed to know what was going on.

Her feet drummed a steady tattoo on the floor as she ran, movements automatic as her mind reached out.

Faolin said, "Arya. Calm down."

She said, "Faolin! You woke up!" And disentangled herself from the web of magic she'd been weaving.

--

Tornac said, "What are you going to name it?"

Eragon blinked at him, absent-mindedly scratching the sleeping dragonet's head. "Uh-- I don't know. I'll have to ask Thorn or 'Hri what gender it is, first."

"That might be helpful," Tornac said, sprawling next to him. "Can I--?" He asked, gesturing at the dragonet.

"Sure," Eragon told him. "Be gentle."

Tornac ran questing fingers down the dragonet's back--it was soft, almost. The dragonet made an almost purring noise and arched into his hand.

There was a soft laugh from the doorway. As one, Tornac and Eragon turned to the door--and Tornac stiffened.

Murtagh's hand was over his mouth, but his eyes were sparkling. Morzan was a heavy presence behind him, eyes dark but smiling. Not that that made him any less scary.

Eragon said, "So, Murtagh. Father. Meet my dragon!" Tornac spared a moment to thank whatever gods were up there for Eragon, who was completely oblivious to Tornac's plight. Murtagh rolled his eyes in Tornac's direction but came over to the baby dragon.

"Thorn says it's a girl," Murtagh said, rubbing small circles on the dragonet's hide.

Eragon's face split in a grin.

Tornac wished desperately for the ground to open up and swallow him.

--

_Katrina? Is that your name? _She looked up. Nasuada's eyes met hers, worried.

She didn't say anything.

_My name was--is Angela. I am--I belong to the Empire. Please; I need your help._

Katrina laced her fingers in her lap and pretended not to hear.

--


	6. Serenade

...Too tired to write notes.

Theme song: Samson, Regina Spektor (yes yes okay maybe my butterfly playlist is a little repetitive shut up)

Disclaimer: Not mine blahblahblah as per usual. (Also, sorry this is late!)

* * *

Serenade: In Which There is Bonding, and Also Memories

_The peace of great prairies be for you.  
Listen among windplayers in cornfields,  
The wind learning over its oldest music_

Carl Sandburg--For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

The dragonet licked her tail and snapped at the fingers dangling temptingly in front of her nose. Her other-soul yelped. She chuffed, amused.

Another person--this one smelled like smoke, but she liked smoke--scritched behind her head. She liked that. She licked his hand. He laughed, stopped scritching. She butted her head against his hand.

He laughed again, and resumed. She purred.

Her other-soul made a surprised noise, and said something, making the floor vibrate. She rolled over; her tummy needed scritching too.

--

Morzan was smiling. And laughing. And he was doing it voluntarily with no trace of sarcasm or malice. _And _Eragon's baby dragon seemed to actually _like _him.

Murtagh was _this _close to curling up in a small ball on the floor, whimpering. Tornac, who had moved closer to the wall, seemed to agree.

Murtagh gritted his teeth and gripped Tornac's hand like he was dangling off the edge of a steep cliff (really, no fun. Don't try it) and Tornac was his only link to safety (why did that feel so familiar?). Tornac gripped back.

Morzan said, "What are you going to name her?" He rubbed his fingers along the side of the dragonet's jaw, and she arched into him.

Eragon blinked at him. "Uh--"

Morzan rolled his eyes and crooned at the dragonet. She made a happy noise.

Tornac shot a desperate look at Murtagh, who returned it.

--

Katrina worried at her bottom lip, trying not to let the panic seep through her eyes. The _presence_ in her mind _kept talking_. It didn't seem to realize that she _couldn't _help it, even if she'd wanted to; there was an alien presence in her mind.

That, she knew, was _not good._ The Varden-Council were not happy with things they could not control, and a voice in Katrina's head was an anomaly they could definitely do without. They wouldn't kill her—she hoped; the Varden didn't kill their own—but they could and probably _would _lock her up until Trianna and her mages could figure out what'd happened. And with the frequency of Empire-attacks lately? That could be quite some time.

Katrina sighed. She couldn't—not tell them; her entire life was here, all her family—from her father, Horst, to her mother Elain's sister Alzie (the one with the wicked knife)'s five-month-old son, Kyal. She couldn't let them get hurt. Not because of her.

She said, _Who are you? _

_Angela—I was—a herbalist—well, a witch really. I—Galbatorix captured me. I'm his dream-seer. Please, I need help. _The being—Angela, she supposed, though she wasn't sure what the protocol for this kind of situation was; did she get attached to the person she might have to cast out of her mind?--had a ragged, panicky mind-voice, damped at the edges with relief.

_My name's Katrina. _

_I--_

_I know you knew that; if we're sort-of sharing a head than the least you can do is not poke through my memories, all right?_

_Uh--_

_First things first. You are the Empire's, yes? Do they have a trace on you? Can they hear what I'm saying now? _She tried to keep her mind-voice from wavering, sounding panicked; this Angela-person, whoever she was, had enough panic for the both of them.

Katrina ran through her memories of magic-lessons with Trianna, looking for something relating to lying in mind-to-mind conversations. She knew that it was impossible to lie in the Ancient Language, but she didn't actually _know _the Ancient Language and was fairly sure she didn't think in it. Or automatically translate it.

Angela said, _I don't think They _(the T was capitalized, no question about it; the fear in her mind-voice sent chills up Katrina's spine) _bother to; they have me under control. Or they think they do. _There was a hint of triumph there—that was good, Katrina thought, it meant Angela-the-person wasn't completely gone into the blind obedience the Empire demanded. _But you'd better not let me see any vital Varden information, just in case. _

_Right. Because that's so easy. _Katrina grimaced; she'd never been any good at magic, or magical theory. She'd have to try; she couldn't trust whatever-this-was—goddess knew she'd had _that _drilled into her head enough times.

The being sharing her mind—temporarily, she hoped—gave the mental equivalent of a shrug and said, _How did I pick someone as unmagical as you?_

Katrina thought nasty thoughts at her; called for or not, that was _rude_, and said, _Well, did you pick? Actually, on second thought, how _did _you end up in my head?_

There was a moment of sheepish mind-silence—well, at least she wasn't panicked anymore—in which Katrina picked at her fingernails, fiddled with her necklace, leaned against Roran, and watched Trianna flip through her book.

Then, _It was an accident. I just—needed to be out. Needed to—I needed to warn you! And the magic took me where I needed to be—Katrina, tell Jeod it's Angela; he'll know who you mean. Galbatorix knows who you are now, and where. I saw it, and I—oh, goddess. I couldn't stop him. Katrina, I saw the world burning. From Spine to Sea, all on fire. And it was the King's fire. _Angela's mind-voice was urgent now, and Katrina didn't _think _she was lying, but she wasn't a great judge of character—she'd thought _Hale _liked her, _liked _her. Hale did not like females, and he'd had a thing for Roran, before he noticed Nasuada, and she was babbling _in her mind_, and--

Katrina pulled herself together, and said, "Trianna? Nasuada? Roran? Her name is Angela. She's a herbalist, and she says she used to know Jeod...?"

--

Galbatorix, King of the Empire of Alagaesia (and really, that had never made sense, being a King of an Empire—he'd _known _alcohol was not conducive to sound judgment, but he'd never say he wasn't a moron on occasion) absentmindedly reached for his dragon's mind—Shruikan bucked and screamed, but no one listened; the creature was insane, after all. He soothed the beast with a narcotic magic, and watched Morzan through the magic burning in his veins.

His sometimes-lover, right-hand-man, best friend, protege—Morzan was all of that and so much _more—_how did you describe such a man? ...And now he was getting poetic. He almost laughed; if only Vrael could see him now.

Morzan was caressing his younger son's dragon—she was very pretty, Galbatorix thought (they both were)—and he did hope the third dragon, the green, would hatch to someone not in Morzan's family—hopefully there weren't any others that'd pop up with a sudden urge to hatch a dragon; if dragon-mating worked like he remembered they might have some problems mating Eragon's blue to Murtagh's Thorn.

The blue was really quite beautiful, though Galbatorix didn't quite understand what had possessed her to hatch _now _and for _Eragon_, of all people—he knew it must be giving Morzan the chills. It was not quite so long ago, in their terms, that Brom's blue Saphira had died.

Now _that _had been unfortunate—he knew Morzan had been fond of the younger Rider, but Brom hadn't run, like he'd been told (the Riders, to their credit, had known how to pick loyal youngsters), had stayed and tried to fight.

He hadn't wanted to kill the man (Morzan would've had his hide, and half the Forsworn would have sulked besides—Brom had been popular, for whatever reason), but neither could he _let _him wander around causing trouble wherever he went. So he'd killed Brom's dragon. And then, perhaps making a big mistake, told him it was thanks to Morzan's concern that he was still alive.

Well, it had sorted itself out in the end. And he hadn't even had to intervene.

He pulled the dark embroidered robe close around him (yes, all right, he didn't like the cold. He was the King, not invulnerable), and slipped behind Morzan's eyes.

Morzan said, _Ask first, Tor. _And shoved his mind gently.

Galbatorix rolled his eyes, withdrew, and tapped gently on the visualized door to Morzan's mind. _May I?_

_Oh, all right. _Morzan was smiling, though, and when Galbatorix fell into him he was warm.

_So, a blue. _

_...We need to get off that as a talking point, Tor. _

_All I said was--_

_You know what you said. _Morzan's mind-voice was just a little irate. Galbatorix reached for the narcotic-magic, to soothe him—just a touch, he wouldn't even notice—and jolted back in shock.

_Morzan, I'm sorry-- _He pulled out, shaking like a leaf, glad there were no servants in his wing.

_I almost—oh old-gods what did I almost _do?

_--_

Faolin said, "What hit me? Do you know?" His hair had managed to get tangled in the run from their room to Arya—to be fair, the City _was _a rabbit-warren, though by design rather than accident—and she reached out a hand to smooth it.

She said, "I don't know—I was doing the spell when you found me."

"Oh." Faolin said, running his fingers through his hair distractedly. "Want any help?"

"We should go back home and then you can anchor me." Arya told him, disentangling threads of magic that she didn't need right now. Her hands were dipped in green, she knew, glowing with the essence of her.

Faolin touched her palm gently, his own electrum-coloured magic mingling with hers, a siren-lure of _home._

She smiled, drawing his warmness close to her like a cloak. "I was worried," she said softly as they made their way down the hall, hand in hand, "You really need to check your shields."

Faolin grinned wryly. "That I have to. Are you all right?"

"My shields held—I went to find Jeod and Ajihad after the first wave, but then the dragons were singing and I figured you'd wake up."

"We should--"

"Finding out is more important."

--

Jeod mopped at the tea on his lap with a napkin, mind detached. Ajihad picked up his sword slowly and stared at Jeod.

Ajihad said, slowly, "We should--"

"While they're off-guard..." Jeod said, half-reluctant.

Ajihad sighed. "We won't actually do it, will we?"

Jeod closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm afraid, sometimes, what I would do to destroy Morzan."

Ajihad put the sword beside him carefully. "You--?"

"I did." Jeod traced a pattern on the back of his hand and looked at the ceiling tiredly. "I did."

--

Murtagh ran his free hand through his hair and watched Eragon's sapphire dragonet snap at Morzan's fingers. He combed his memories for the time after Thorn'd hatched; had Morzan been like this with Murtagh's dragon? He sighed. Memories of that time were blurry--he'd been young--thirteen, maybe, if mature for that age--he didn't _know, _goddess-damn-it.

He smiled wryly, remembering himself at age thirteen--tall for his age, and pale, with floppy dark hair that just wouldn't stay out of his eyes. With his father-complex for his little brother, who had been a gift when Murtagh was very small--one he hadn't wanted; to four-year-old Murtagh it'd seemed like the baby who wouldn't stop crying was a poor trade for his mother, absent though she'd been.

He'd dealt with it--he was responsible, after all, and didn't want the tiny almost-person to get a scar like his. He didn't have to put himself between his brother and his father very long, thankfully--Morzan'd done some soul-searching, apparently, and dropped drinking.

...And then Eragon hit adolescence, and Murtagh had had to separate them all over again, but that was beside the point.

He remembered running his hands over the ruby-crimson egg (_blood_, he'd thought, _but blood is life too_), and then it'd hatched. For him. It had been the best feeling _ever_--how did you describe such _rightness_ as when you met the other half of your soul?

The dragonet had fallen asleep, again, curled up on Eragon's chest, and Morzan was still smiling. Somehow he wasn't quite so disconcerted, not anymore.

He remembered, suddenly--

A red hatchling, curled in Murtagh's arms, tail wrapped around his wrist. A fierce feeling of joy, and Morzan's vivid, bright smile.

Thorn said, _Remember when you were that stupid?_

Murtagh sent the mental impression of a glare--_Remember when you were that small?_

_Very funny, _Thorn said, and listened to their hearts beat in tandem, then--_He was like that with us, too, you know. Your father is _weak _for small baby dragons. And, you know, kittens. And puppies._

Murtagh stifled a laugh. Tornac looked at him oddly.

He risked a glance at his father--and blinked, startled.

Morzan's eyes had gone slightly glazed--yeah, mind-to-mind with Galbatorix, probably, that wasn't odd--but Morzan snapped out of it quickly, a worried expression lingering on his lips. Murtagh rubbed his wrist, just under the cuff, a little worried.

Not that he'd ever say anything, but Morzan-and-Galbatorix freaked him out. Not because they were both male--for goddess' sake, he wasn't drinking _tea _with Tornac all the time they were together--but because, well, Morzan looked about seventeen. At the oldest.

And Murtagh got the feeling that their relationship was not based on romantic love so much as mutual possessiveness--sure, there was love buried in there somewhere, in that mass of swirling emotions, but it wasn't--the heart of it.

Thorn said, _Stop brooding. It's a hatching day! Be happy! _

Murtagh said, _No, seriously. How did you get into the mead?_

But he was pulling Tornac up, and he was smiling.

--

_You are smiling--your lips red like blood, bitten so deep--the girl in the other part of your mind is talking, telling her friends the truth/lie you spun (_who are you to say what is holy?).

_Her name is Katrina, daughter of Horst and Elain, sister of Baldor and Albriech--also daughter of Sloan and Ismira, though that is buried deep in her psyche. You wonder at her--at her sheer humanity, which you sort of envy--even through the thousand wars she's fighting she is still herself and not a weapon. _

_You dig a little deeper, and oh--_that's _why there are no visible scars. _

_It sends a shiver up your spine, and you recoil._

--


	7. Rhapsody

Whee! Next part. Reviews are love!

Disclaimer: Christopher Paolini really, really doesn't want this.

* * *

Rhapsody: In Which Problems Are Compounded

_The peace of great seas be for you.  
Wait on a hook of land, a rock footing  
For you, wait in the salt wash._  
Carl Sandburg--For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

"And she says that she really needs to talk to Jeod--I don't _think _she's lying, but..." Katrina finished. She took a breath, and looked around.

Roran looked at her, and she could _see _the questions in his eyes.

Nasuada was dubious, but then again, Nasuada always calculated everything.

Trianna was clutching her bronze snake. It looked a little...dead. Huh. She resolved to ask about it later. When, you know, her best friends in all the world didn't think her insane and/or a liability. She didn't actually know which was worse.

Roran said, "Is this--you? Really you? As in Katrina, my best friend?"

She said, "Oh, come _on, _Roran. Who took you to Surda after Birgit broke your heart?"

Roran blinked. "...Faolin?"

"Exactly."

"Well, the roundabout logic's hers--" Roran said, lightly as he could manage, though the tension in the lines of his back was still there. Nasuada grinned weakly, the tension in the air blanketing down on everything.

Trianna said, "I need to go into your mind, all right? It'll go easier if you know what I'm doing, and you let me in...I'm going to try and delineate a line between you and 'Angela' so you can control her, at least, and so we'll know it's you speaking."

Katrina nodded. "What do I do--is this like normal, or?"

"Just like normal, I think. Just open your mind-door for me."

Katrina set her jaw and fell into the familiar trance.

--

Eragon reached with his mind, just a little, towards the sleeping dragon in his arms. She murmured and flicked her tail around his wrist.

Tenderness welled up inside him, and he ran one hand down her back, smiling softly.

He watched her wings half-flare as she breathed, and felt so peculiarly _bonded—_and he knew, now, what Murtagh and Morzan were babbling about when they talked about other halves of souls wrapped up in a dragon's skin.

Morzan rested a hand on his shoulder. Eragon looked up at his father, and cocked his head. "Are you all right, Father?"

Morzan blinked at him, grey eyes startled.

Eragon half-smiled. He wasn't quite as stupid as people thought, and he could be observant when it came to people he loved--and he _did _love his father, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Morzan said, "I--I'll come back. Think of a name for your dragon." He turned quickly and left, leaving Eragon staring after him.

Murtagh said, "What just happened?"

Tornac, standing beside him, scrubbed his free hand over his face and whispered, "I _knew _getting up this morning was a bad idea..."

Murtagh poked him.

Eragon said, "_That _I did _not _need to know."

Tornac choked.

--

Roran gripped Nasuada's hand as Trianna raised her fingertips to Katrina's temples, as they fell into the dream-state all of them knew so well, as both of them knelt, facing each other, linked only by Trianna's hands on Katrina's brow.

The air settled around them, tension heavy on their shoulders.

Trianna began to glow bronze, and her lips moved soundlessly.

Katrina's head fell back and her eyes fell closed as the light caught her, turning dark-copper as it wrapped around her.

Nasuada rested her head on Roran's shoulder, wordless.

--

Thorn basked in the sunlight, enjoying its warmth on his wings, and purred.

Ruadhri looked at him, amused. _Enjoying yourself? _

_Yes. _Thorn told her, resolutely. _A dragonet just hatched, the sun is shining, no one I love has died recently--this is cause for celebration. Just because my Rider is being an idiot does not mean I can't be happy. _

She laughed, then, a low rumble in her chest. _Very true, little one. Want to fly?_

_With you? Of course! _Thorn preened his right wing and flapped it once, checking for loose scales.

'Hri rose to her feet, amaranth wings extended behind her. She looked like a sphinx, or a cat. _If you can catch me, _she teased, and took off.

Thorn sighed, said, _Murtagh, don't get into any messes. I'm going flying. _

His Rider said, _With Hri?_

_Yes. Shut up. _Thorn tested the wind, and launched himself into the sky, exulting in flight through the dying sky.

_Have fun. Oh, and ask her what's up with Father, please? _Thorn's Chosen's voice was worried. Which made Thorn a little uncertain. Not enough to put off the flight, but enough not to tease Murtagh.

Thorn said, _Fine--And do be careful--I don't want to get back to carnage._

Murtagh sent a rude gesture down their connection and Thorn laughed.

Then he and Ruadhri were soaring over the river, and there was salt-spray on his claws as he caught the crests of the deep waves, and he was _so alive_.

--

Back in their room, Arya took Faolin's hand in hers, twined a vine of her magic around his essence, and _flew_.

The magic caught her, took her home. Faolin's warmness anchored her, and she danced, looking for answers. Threads of different-coloured magics surrounded her, sparkling.

One bright-gold string caught her wrist; she looked down the thread and turned away. While interesting, that was not a conclusion she intended to pursue for a long long while.

She searched through the shimmering magics, and found a blood-red cord, thicker than the others, spiraling out from the City. She took it in her insubstantial hands and followed it to it's logical destination.

--

Trianna lifted her head, exhausted. "It's done," she said, and collapsed. Roran ran to her, checked her pulse—she was alive, thank goddess.

Katrina stood up. She was glowing dark red, pupils gone. She said, "Take me to him," and her voice was different.

Nasuada said, "Angela?"

"I won't hurt her, don't worry—take me to Jeod, now, _please_."

Nasuada swallowed. Roran, checking Trianna's head for wounds, wondered what she'd do.

His eyes met hers; she said, "All right."

--

The sleeping dragonet curled in the crook of Eragon's arm growled in her sleep, tail flicking back and forth like a cat's. The boy rubbed his fingers behind her head, easing his own tension.

His brother closed his eyes briefly, and Eragon's mind _pinged_.

He twitched. "Are you--"

Murtagh ran a tired hand through floppy hair. "Oh, hellfires. It would be _now _that you'd pick up on unshielded conversations, wouldn't it?"

Eragon said, "If it helps, I didn't actually _hear _anything—I just—_felt. _Something."

Tornac looked back and forth between them, and sighed, sitting down tailor-fashion, dragging Murtagh's hand with him. Murtagh shot him a dazzling grin, lighting up his too-old eyes.

Eragon tried to quell the sharp pang of jealousy that shot through him.

Murtagh looked at him, eyes sharp. "Well, that's good, I suppose. Can you cope with that for a little while? I want to figure out what's going on with Father and the King before I do anything else."

He said, "I think I can handle that."

Murtagh smiled at him, but Eragon couldn't help noticing that it didn't quite eclipse the shadows in his brother's level gaze.

--

Arya sat up, a feeling of _rightness _suffusing her mind. "Faolin," she said slowly. "I know what happened."

He looked at her, letting the magic fall from his fingertips.

She said, "Angela is alive."

--

Eragon watched Murtagh, soreness buried deep in his heart. Murtagh watched Eragon, dark eyes unreadable, and so old.

Tornac said, plaintive,"Can someone clarify for me what just happened? Because I, uh, don't actually know."

Murtagh grinned at him; Eragon rolled his eyes (mentally—Murtagh could and would _totally _kick his ass). "Sometimes I forget you're not--" He stopped.

Tornac glared. Eragon glared too.

Murtagh said, "I should really just not talk, huh?"

Eragon would have smiled had he not been really quite irritated with his brother at this point in time. Instead he said, "What he was trying to say was that our father has just decided to work out his massive issues with our esteemed king—what, you thought I was stupid? I notice things. Occasionally."

Murtagh twisted his mouth wryly, didn't say anything.

The baby dragon flicked her tail again, and chuffed in her sleep. Eragon ran a soothing hand over her, and she curled into his lap. "Anyway, we'd like to know what's going on with them. Before they, you know, destroy this tower."

Tornac said, "You're joking, right?" His eyes were wide.

Murtagh said, "I wish he was—d'you remember, like four years ago there was a freak lightning strike on the castle, and everyone thought it was the Varden?"

Tornac nodded, and swallowed loudly. Eragon looked down at his dragon to keep from laughing—it wasn't especially funny, but in his family you took laughter where you could get it.

...Which probably explained his ridiculous turnover of girlfriend, but who really cared? Aderyn certainly didn't. The thought of her sent a warm feeling running through him, and he couldn't keep from smiling.

Something _pinged. _Again. He looked at Murtagh.

Murtagh said, "Well, I don't think today'll be the day they kill each other." His voice was wry.

Tornac said, "I don't want to know, do I?"

Eragon said, "No. Murtagh, can you find us places to sleep now please?"

Murtagh said, "Oh, goddess, it _is _dark, isn't it?" He got to his feet and looked at them expectantly. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Eragon grinned at Tornac, took his dragon in arms, and followed his brother.

--

Katrina opened her eyes. The world fuzzed for a moment, and she reached up a hand to touch the tan blob in front of her curiously.

Then the world snapped into focus and she dropped her hand. "Sorry, Papa," she said.

Horst smiled at her, big grin splitting his face. "Thought you'd never wake up, bright-star. Your Mama and your brothers and me were worried."

She laughed, and started to hug him—and found herself incapable of getting up. She looked around; she was lying on a bed, several blankets tangled tight around her—looked like the infirmary. She sighed, and remembered-- "Papa—what happened? Did it work? Do you know? Where are Roran and Nasuada?"

The words tumbled out of her as her chest seized with a cold she realized was fear.

Horst put a gentling hand on her shoulder. "Slow down, Katrina. One question at a time, all right?"

She took a deep breath and looked at him with pleading eyes.

He said, "It's all right. The end of the world has _not _come and gone, and Nasuada and Roran are fine—they've been sitting here all night; eventually I sent them home, where I expect they are curled up asleep like puppies and kittens."

She laughed weakly. The image of her two best friends, cuddled into each other like baby animals, fit far too well.

"You are fine, Trianna is fine—still asleep, in that bed over there," he pointed, and she saw Callie curled into her mother's arms, sucking her thumb quietly, asleep. "She did a little poking around, and you've been asleep for a day now. We think it was a reaction to the mental trauma—you should be able to control your contact with Angela now."

Katrina blinked. "Wait—Angela—did she talk to Jeod?"

Horst nodded, eyes a little dark. "He trusts her, apparently. And we trust him. Bright-star, we may be going to war soon."

She took a sharp breath. "What did she _say?_ Jeod is--" The Varden's co-leader was known for his almost-pacifistic avoidance of the concept of war with the Empire, as his partner was known for his endorsement of any means that would take down their enemies.

"Enough. Katrina, Elain is coming, and I would rather spare her and your brothers knowledge of this."

Katrina swallowed, throat like paper, and nodded.

In her mind, Angela knocked on a door. _Hello, sleepyhead,_ she said.

Katrina retorted, _You're awfully happy, aren't you? _

There was a feeling like a warm hand on her shoulder and Angela said, _Oh, Katrina._

--


	8. Duet

Next part! And the one after this is in three parts (currently, there may be more) and as such uber, uber long. So there may be a while to wait for it.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Chris Paolini's.

Reviews are made of awesome!

* * *

Duet: In Which the Varden Show Some of Their Hand, and Katrina Does Something Stupid

_The peace of great mountains be for you,  
The sleep and the eyesight of the eagles,  
Sheet mist shadows and the long look across._  
Carl Sandburg—For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

_You are walking through the mountains, mist shrouding you from sight. The rock under your feet is solid, if cold, and your shoes are thin. You are at peace, wandering as you will, but there is an underlying sense of urgency tugging at you. _

_You remember--_

_You wake._

_--_

When Roran and Nasuada got to the infirmary, draped over each other in the haze of those who have just woken up, Katrina was surrounded by her family, in all their rowdy glory.

She was laughing, and they waited in the doorway, half-sleeping on each other's shoulders.

Elain said something, warm and comforting as always, and Katrina's eyes met Nasuada's, then flicked to Roran. They grinned in unison, smothering matching yawns.

Katrina waved. Roran waved back, and Nasuada's smile was a conversation in itself.

Roran said, "Just wanted to make sure you weren't dead!" And blew her a kiss. Katrina giggled, and fell back against the pillows.

Nasuada said, "We'll come back later, all right? When you're less exhausted."

Elain said, "We'll find you when she's not _completely _smashed, don't worry!" Her smile was bright, though slightly sour when turned on Roran.

He swallowed.

Sensing his distress, Nasuada said, "Thank you, ma'am, we'd appreciate that." And fled, Roran in tow.

Katrina bit her lip, and returned to her brother Albriech's tales of the time his friend Nolvafrell accidentally broke one of the spare katanas and triggered a green-wash.

--

Tornac woke up, and was momentarily disoriented—the pillow under his head was too soft; the blankets too fine—and then Murtagh said, "You woke up. Finally."

Everything came flooding back. He opened his eyes slowly, a sliver at a time, and saw his best friend sitting at the end of the bed he'd been dumped in. It was a very nice bed, he thought, absently, rubbing his eyes.

His overtunic and boots sat on the table next to the bed, neatly folded, and he thanked the goddess that he always did that. It would not have been a good thing to wake up without an overtunic, not in this weather.

Murtagh was watching him, quiet intensity burning in dark eyes. Tornac caught his gaze, and smiled, sitting up. "Is the sun up yet?"

Murtagh said, "Not yet—I'm used to waking up ridiculously early; dragonets are difficult like that. I think Eragon may spend today half-asleep."

Tornac smothered a grin. "Are you going to get off me long enough for me to get dressed?"

Murtagh wrinkled his nose endearingly. "...Do I have to?"

Tornac rolled his eyes. "You look about five, you know. And if we're going to get anything done, then yes."

"Oh, all right. I want you to see dawn here, anyway. It's amazing." Murtagh grinned, and stood. "I'd get Eragon, but I thought it'd be kinder to let him sleep—just-hatched dragonets are...demanding, to say the least."

Tornac got out of bed, and swore. "Goddess, Murtagh, it's _cold_."

"What'd you expect? We're getting air off the river, you know. And it's winter." Murtagh was looking far too amused for his own good.

Tornac glared at him and pulled the overtunic over his head, teeth chattering.

Murtagh rolled his eyes and whispered some words that Tornac couldn't hear—and then he was warm.

He said, "Thank you," and pulled on his boots.

His friend half-smiled, and pushed some hair out of his eyes. "We should go now—the sun'll be rising soon, and the view from the North Tower is the best of them."

Tornac said, "That's far, isn't it?"

"You bet."

--

Orik, dwarf-ambassador to the Varden, and adopted son of their King Hrothgar, champed down on his pipe, and inhaled a cloud of smoke. He didn't choke.

Jeod said, "Orik, we're not trying to make this difficult. You _know _Farthen Dur isn't safe—you need to get Hrothgar to evacuate to the City. You're the only one he'll listen to, and you know it."

Ajihad was gripping his sword tightly, and didn't say anything.

Orik took another deep breath, and stroked his beard.

Jeod gritted his teeth and pulled himself together—right now he didn't represent himself, he represented the Varden, and he'd better behave like it-- "Orik," he said, "I regret to have to say this—we can't keep sending you help from the City; it's draining us. We don't have the magic to teleport, and cloak the teleports, and goddess-prevent there was an attack on the Mountain—we wouldn't be able to help you."

He looked away, feeling guilty—he'd betrayed their best allies, he knew, and it was going to cost him. Ajihad caught his gaze, making him look up.

_You did the right thing_, those dark, calm eyes said.

_I wish I could believe that, _he hoped he conveyed.

--

Morzan woke up to warmth and safety, a feeling to which he was not entirely accustomed, and arms around him, something he hadn't felt for a long time. Galbatorix kissed his forehead.

Morzan said, irritably, "I'm not two years old," moved up, and kissed him properly.

Galbatorix leaned into it—Morzan was pretty sure he'd have been offended if he hadn't—but when they broke for air he was actually talking, something Morzan had been trying to eliminate his capacity for.

"Not that I'm not enjoying this," Galbatorix said, sucking in a deep breath, "but we'll miss sunrise if we don't move now. And you...may want to brush your teeth."

Morzan glared.

--

Trianna opened her eyes, and reached an absent hand down to stroke her daughter's silk-fine hair. Callie snapped awake.

"Mother!" the girl said, "You woke up!"

Trianna sighed, and lay back as the healers she'd helped to train swarmed around her.

Iason blinked at her accusingly. "If I'd known you were going to save the day all on your own I wouldn't have wasted half a day looking for Arya and Faolin!"

She rolled her eyes.

--

Eragon was woken by a heavy, moving weight on his chest. He cracked one eye open, and saw—his dragonet. Jumping up and down on his chest.

He said, "Oh, come _on_. I've only been up all night feeding you—all right, you woke me up once an hour. Which in my book? Counts as all night."

The dragonet looked at him accusingly, bright blue eyes mournful.

He sighed. "Well, are you hungry?"

No answering pang in his stomach.

"Not hungry, then. And that corner of this room—which, by the way, will be unusable after this—shows that you don't need to use the necessary..."

She chirped and flapped her fragile wings, sitting back on her haunches and observing him in all his barely-awake glory. Something inside him twinged.

"You want to...go outside?" he asked, tentative.

She chirped approvingly.

"Well, then. Hop on my shoulder, blue-lady—evidently I am but a slave to your whim."

She nipped at his finger reprovingly, but curled her tail around his neck and dug her claws into his shoulder.

He sighed, and got up.

--

Arya grimaced, and swallowed the foul-tasting tea down, hoping the taste wouldn't linger.

Faolin watched her worriedly, hovering. "Headache subsiding?" he asked.

She bit her lip, and nodded. "We should--"

"Once I'm sure you're all right."

She hit him on the arm, lightly. "Stop that. Being controlling, I mean. You don't wear it well."

"I just—you know I worry."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Angela's alive, dearheart. That trumps...pretty much everything."

He sighed. "I know—but, Arya..."

"I'll be fine," she said, smiling. A hundred dragons jumped up and down in her head. She hoped the tea would work soon.

--

Tornac shivered as he and Murtagh made their way up through the myriad of staircases leading to the roof of the North Tower. The heat-spell, evidently, was no match for dawn above the river.

Murtagh looked at him, worriedly. "Are you sick? Because it's really not that cold."

Tornac glared. "Well, you're a cold-weather boy, aren't you? I grew up in the _desert_. Where we didn't _get _stupid things like snow. Goddess, it's _freezing_."

Murtagh sighed, and tried the spell again.

Tornac made a happy noise. "That's better," he said, "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Murtagh said cheerfully. "Look—we're almost at the top."

Tornac sucked in a breath. "Oh, _goddess,_" he whispered reverentially. The sun was rising, and the sky was on fire.

--

Thorn dragon-yawned, watching his breath steam in the cold morning air. He looked around the copse of thick trees, and wondered where they were.

He stretched out his wings; next to him, Ruadhri was doing the same. He said, _Good morning. Do you, by any chance, know where we are?_

She reared back and set a tree on fire. Thorn basked in the heat. _Good morning, little one. And I have absolutely no idea where we are. Isn't it wonderful?_

Thorn thought, _At least I'll die warm._

She nudged him with her nose. _Cheer up, little one. Shiarra is ascending._

He looked up and out, and saw—the sun rising, painting the sky gold and red and pink, the colours of the sun-dragon dancing in ribbons over Alagaesia, Morzan's dragon silhouetted by it all.

She was beautiful, he thought, and remembered.

_Oh. Shit._

--

Nasuada touched her fingers to the earth, sending little tendrils of her essence down into the soil. Roran's hands on her shoulders kept her safe, held her tight, prevented her from falling into the _green_.

The sun dappled their backs, soft heat warming them. The gardens—built, maintained and shielded by magic—were _for _earth-elemental mages, even those whose magic was as minor as Nasuada's; earth and plants helped to ground them. Not to mention that the flowers were always very nice.

Nasuada felt through the damp, warm darkness—reached out her roots and settled, absorbing and resting, finding her peace for the first time in too long.

Roran watched her, and thought her beautiful.

--

"Hey!" Eragon exclaimed, as his dragon (_his dragon!_ He still couldn't get over that) bit his finger. Again.

She looked into his eyes, her own sparkling and bright.

He sighed. "All right, all right, I'll move faster—will you stop biting me now?"

She chirped. He took that as a yes, and walked briskly up the stairs, wishing desperately that he knew enough of the Ancient Language to warm himself up.

"Where exactly are we going?" He asked the dragon on his shoulder, wryly.

She made a disgruntled noise, and steered him just slightly right.

He said, "All right, you know what we're doing, I won't ask any question—happy now?"

The claws digging into his shoulder told him that yes, she was happy with it, and his sarcasm was _not _appreciated. He sighed, and kept walking.

--

Galbatorix whispered the words, and they were on the tower-roof. Perhaps not the most efficient use of magic, but if one had power, would it not be criminal to not use it? This precise philosophy was what had gotten Galbatorix in trouble with the Rider-Council, in long-ago Vroengard, but he'd won, so he wasn't going to worry about it.

Morzan rolled his eyes. "Show-off."

Galbatorix grinned. "Would you have me any other way?"

"Yes?" Morzan opened his mouth to continue, and let it hang open. "Oh—I'd forgotten sunrises..."

Galbatorix laughed, deep and bass, and let his eyes trail over Morzan's frame, golden in the dawn.

--

Odele wandered through the rabbit-warren-hallways of Garden-Quarter (there must have been twenty "quarters" comprising the City, but tradition was all they had left), touching various hanging flowers as she went. She stopped at a particularly bright purple blossom, dangling from its mother-plant, suspended from the ceiling.

She plucked it gently, and tucked it behind her ear, where it sat perfectly accentuating her long blonde hair. She admired herself in the marble wall, laughing at her own vanity, and walked on, smiling.

Finally she reached her destination—the glass door leading to the Peace-Garden—and knocked once before walking through it.

Nasuada was sitting, tailor-fashion, in the middle of the cabbage-patch, hands on either side of her buried in the earth. Roran was lounging next to her, hands brushing her waist. He looked up at Odele's knock, and said, quietly, "What are you doing here?"

She dropped into the bench beside them, loose and lithe and graceful. "What do you think I'm doing here? The rest of us would like to know what happened to Katrina, and no one's telling us, Ror'." Her voice was low, lilting—and urgent.

He said, "She's in the infirmary, can't you wait until she's better to gossip?"

"That's not fair," she pouted. "You and I both know--"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Something—came. Possessed her, maybe. I don't know much—just what we saw. Can you just--"

"Thank you," she told him, sincere for once. "I'll leave you to it, then. --If you see Katrina, give her my luck?"

"Of course," he nodded. "Go away now?"

She stuck out her tongue, and flounced away.

--

Arya felt the tingling in her mind, dropped her tea, and swore. Next to her, Faolin was swearing too. She fell into the magic, when it tapped her, biting her lip and irritated but willing all the same.

When they were done, she opened her eyes tiredly, took Faolin's hand, and _swore_.

Next to her, Faolin was doing the same.

She ripped the bedcover irritatedly, fixed it, and sighed. Faolin scrubbed the heel of his right hand over his eyes. "Well," he said, "we have a problem."

She said, "Well, yes."

--

Tornac lowered himself onto the floor of the tower, hands imprinting themselves on the roof-tile as he stared out at the sun rising. Murtagh, beside him, was grinning smugly.

The castle at Uru'baen was spread out below them, towers and turrets like a city in the air.

He jumped when the black dragon in the tower to the south roared and flew into the bright sunrise, a blot on the banners of red and gold streaming across the sky.

Murtagh put a settling hand on his shoulder, and he relaxed—and then tensed, because Murtagh was _not _supposed to make him feel good.

...right?

--

Arya stood in front of Jeod, hair tied back messily, clothes thrown on in a hurry. Faolin, beside her, was just as disarrayed.

Jeod said, from the safety of behind his (very strong) desk, "I assume she's called you home?"

Arya nodded. "I'm so sorry, Jeod—but there's been an incursion and they need us."

He sighed. "And what about when _we _need you? Katrina's in the infirmary with someone in her _head_ whom I thought was dead but who I am now convinced is merely mentally unbalanced, and an Empire incursion gets you scurrying home."

Arya looked at him. Faolin ran a hand through his hair. Again.

Jeod said, "Yeah, I know. I didn't mean that, just...venting. You know how it is."

Arya nodded. "We are sorry, you know. You have Katrina under control?"

Faolin added, "For now, at least?"

Jeod said, "We'll manage. Go save the elves, yeah?"

They bowed in unison, and inwardly he smiled.

--

When Eragon got to the rooftop, it was paved in gold-pink-orange and unearthly beautiful. On his shoulder, his dragon stopped chirping.

He reached up a hand, ran his fingers down the curve of her wind in silent reverence. He took a deep sharp breath at the sight of two figures shining gold, one leaned into the other, arms wound tight together.

He half-grinned, softly, at Morzan and Galbatorix. Some days he just didn't understand Murtagh's disapproval—they _fit_, perfectly.

His dragon curved her cheek into his palm, making a quiet snuffling noise. He smiled again, thinking of the picture they must make—boy and dragon, silhouetted at the beginning of the world.

He flicked his eyes away from his father to the other tower, where one man sat on the edge of the roof, dangling his legs. Another, body-language spelling out protection, rested his hand on the first's shoulder—Eragon laughed inwardly at the irony.

They fit, too—Tornac burnished golden, Murtagh half-shadowed behind him. He wondered, _is this what my family is? Shadows behind those we love? _And sighed, staring into the morning.

--

Katrina slipped through the crack between the door and the doorframe, angling her body just _so, _so she didn't make noise. There were some downsides to living in a city full of highly-trained warriors who pulled out weapons at the slightest disruption.

She checked her arsenal—long hunting knife and throwing-stars in her belt, daggers in her boots and at her wrists, shortbow and quiver in her pack, along with food, clothes, blankets, and money. She was ready for this.

Whatever this _was._

In her mind, Angela was silent, except for the all-too-common whispers that sounded too much like screaming.

She took a deep, quiet breath, and stepped forward, to the bed in the center of the room she'd just snuck into. It had white sheets, she thought absently, dappled by the moonlight and shot into chiaroscuro.

Roran, whose bed it was, was sleeping soundly. Nasuada, whose bed it wasn't, was sleeping soundly too, dark hair fanned across Roran and the pillow. Katrina swallowed, as soundless as she could be, and leaned forward, tapping Nasuada's shoulder three times.

The other girl opened her eyes slowly, and murmured, "Kat?"

She thought, _It's me. Nasuada, I have to go—I just wanted you to know that I love you both and that it's not your fault that I'm gone and...goddess bless. I--_

She didn't say anything, melted back into the shadows she'd learned so well.

Nasuada muttered, irritated, but curled into Roran and went back to sleep.

Katrina closed her eyes, briefly, and whispered, so quiet no one would hear, "I'll miss you. I love you. Goddess bless." She took a shivering breath, and slipped the moss-green necklace over her head, leaving it on the table besides them. "Goodbye."

Nasuada murmured, and Roran soothed her, even in his sleep. The corner of Katrina's mouth quirked up, even through the thick sadness in her heart.

She left the way she'd come.

--

Arya ran a nervous hand through her hair, hoping nothing had gotten stuck.

Faolin said, "Calm down; she won't hurt you, you know." The trees of Du Weldenvarden shivered as a cool breeze ran through them, and a bird whistled, oddly jarring.

"I do, but--"

"Your mother is far more likely to hurt me than you."

She laughed nervously.

Vanir melted out of the forest, beautiful and deadly as ever. "Lady Arya; Lord Faolin?" He bowed, elegant.

They bowed back. Arya said, "She's expecting us?"

A wry smile crept over Vanir's features. "Very impatiently, I might add."

--

"I'm ready," Katrina said quietly, and felt the magic gather around her. She pushed the little-used door open, and slipped out into the night, and the mountains, and uncertainty.

--


End file.
